


an indentation in the shape of you (our secret moments)

by ladililn



Series: wanna be your end game (my youth is yours) [3]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Modern: No Powers, M/M, Modern Era, Modern Royalty, Oxford, each entry in this series has more porn and less plot than the one before, shrug emoji
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-30
Updated: 2018-10-30
Packaged: 2019-08-09 23:56:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,961
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16459526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ladililn/pseuds/ladililn
Summary: Merlin has frozen in place, like a prey animal trying theyou can’t see me if I don’t movetrick. To be fair, it’s not like he has anywhere to hide; with the covers kicked off almost all the way, there’s no way for him to cover up that wouldn’t expose even more in the process. Arthur clears his throat.In retrospect, he’ll wish he said something cool and suave, James Bond-y, likeNeed a hand?In the moment, he manages to force out “Can I—please—” Merlin keeps staring, and Arthur swallows hard, takes another step forward. “Can I touch you? Please?”





	an indentation in the shape of you (our secret moments)

**Author's Note:**

> I have no good explanation for why this is one-fifth Arthur POV and the other four-fifths Merlin. It just is. As with the others, this is a remix rather than a sequel and can technically be read standalone, although at this point there's a bit more in the way of back-references you'd be missing, none of them essential. In reference to the original, this one presents an alternate scenario of section iv and branches out from there.
> 
> [This song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JEmcVL1WJgk) provided a title for the previous entry, but is perhaps lyrically even more suited to this one. (It actually works pretty well for the entire series. And just Merthur in general, IMO.) Which isn't to say that [the song that provided _this_ fic's title](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JjdjOZvvucw) isn't also very fitting.

(i.)

Arthur lands at Heathrow three hours late, because that’s what you get when you fly commercial.

It’s not that he _really_ minds. Flying commercial saves the taxpayers money, and is better for the environment, and sands down the edges of Arthur’s “unbearably privileged git vibe” (according to Merlin). He gets all that. But what with the interminable delays, constantly being asked for selfies, and the terrible food (he doesn’t _care_ if it’s cliché, it’s _true_ ), he hardly thinks he can be blamed for needing a drink.

As his driver navigates the predictably terrible traffic between Heathrow and the palace, Arthur considers his options. Most of his friends are either off at uni or somewhere in Europe doing gap year properly. He has a few rugger mates who are still around, but it’s only been a few months since Arthur left school, and to be perfectly honest that’s not enough time for him to miss them yet. Even Morgana doesn’t get in from Paris until tomorrow morning, and the fact that he even considers the potential of asking his _sister_ out for a drink proves just how very badly he needs one.

Which leaves Merlin. Surprisingly, that doesn’t seem an altogether unattractive option. Arthur’s not really in the mood for any of his usual haunts, places where cocktails start at twenty quid and someone will always try talking to him about their startup. If Merlin has enough of a social life to have haunts of his own—which he’s not taking as read—they’ll be decidedly lower-key.

When Arthur gets to Gaius’ apartment, someone’s on their way out—that girl Merlin’s always with, the school friend. What’s her name? It starts with an _F_ , he remembers that. Flora? Finoulla? Febreze?

“Freya!” he says, just as she catches sight of him. He dons his best charming-yet-approachable smile. (Merlin once caught him practicing in the mirror, years ago, and still brings it up whenever possible. Joke’s on him, though, because the smile works wonders.)

“Oh!” Freya goes a little pink, smiling shyly. “Hi. It’s good to see you.”

Arthur didn’t like Freya much when Merlin first befriended her, six or so years ago. It wasn’t anything she said or did—really, it had very little to do with her at all. Even Arthur didn’t understand it at the time. Merlin would come home from school babbling on about his amazing new friend Freya, so brilliant and sweet and such good fun, and Arthur would find himself getting increasingly grumpy because it sounded like Merlin fancied this girl, and that wasn’t right. He could never put his finger on _why_ it wasn’t right, but he knew it wasn’t, and it frustrated him that Merlin would surely go and fall for Freya only to inevitably realize it was _all wrong_ , just as Arthur already _knew_ , and cause himself (and more importantly Arthur, since he’d be forced to hear about it) a lot of unnecessary grief.

Eventually Arthur did put his finger on what exactly made him so suspicious: Merlin is _gay_ , clearly, and the sooner he realized the happier he’d be, and the last thing he needed was to be temporarily confused by some random girl who always looked like she’d been caught in a rainstorm even when perfectly dry.

Fortunately for all involved, the relationship Arthur feared never developed. Merlin _did_ wind up “dating” some girl called Elena, but he never seemed particularly invested, and Arthur assumed it was more of a temporary-safety-blanket-while-he-gathered-the-courage-to-come-out situation. Which isn’t as bad as if he’d gotten himself involved in a proving-to-himself-and-the-world- how-straight-he-really-was-Oops!-turns-out-not-so-much situation, but still—trust Merlin to take something as simple as being attracted to blokes and make it all complicated and dramatic. When it occurred to Arthur sometime last year that his feelings toward one of his favorite footballers might be less about aesthetic appreciation and more about sexual attraction, did he freak out? Of course not! The thought occurred; he examined it, shrugged, and moved on with his life.

(It’s not like there’s anything for Arthur to _do_ with this information, not until Neymar actually shows up on his doorstep and asks Arthur to run away with him like in that one dream he had. Since having that particular thought (he can hardly call it a _revelation_ , much less an _epiphany_ ), there’s only been one boy he’s met in person who he’s noticed himself attracted to, and given that said boy, the son of a Chinese diplomat, was only in Britain for a week, and only in Arthur’s presence (along with both their fathers and a good deal of press) for half an hour, and didn’t speak that much English, and Arthur didn’t speak any Mandarin—suffice to say, thus far being Probably Bisexual hasn’t had a practicable impact on Arthur’s life.

Well, alright—there _was_ just that guy in Bermuda who gave him a blowjob. Which had less to do with Arthur finding him especially attractive and more to do with Arthur enjoying blowjobs. Still, somebody who isn’t Probably Bisexual probably wouldn’t have been up for it. There’s not really a _dilemma_ there, so Arthur just doesn’t see the need to give his Probable Bisexuality any particular thought.)

He’s reasonably confident Merlin isn’t dating Elena anymore—at least, Arthur hasn’t heard about her in ages—which hopefully means he’s finally come to terms with being gay. And since the whole thing with Freya never came to pass, Arthur has nothing against _her_.

“Good to see you as well,” he says. “How’s the family?”

“Oh!” Freya looks pleased that he remembers. Which he doesn’t, of course, but people having families is a pretty safe bet. (As conversational tactics go it’s not wholly without risk, of course, but Arthur is always careful to remember when someone’s entire family was killed by a moose stampede or in a ballooning accident.) “Really good, actually, thanks for asking! How are you?”

“Oh, can’t complain. You wouldn’t happen to know if Gaius is in, would you?”

“Afraid he’s not. Merlin says he went out to dinner with some friends and won’t be back until late.”

Arthur has a sudden, unbidden mental image of Gaius wearing a party hat and dancing on a table. It’s…unsettling.

He shakes his head to clear it and refocuses on what’s important: Gaius. Out.

Bugger.

He’s not _actually_ looking for Gaius, of course, but he makes a convenient excuse. The last thing Arthur wants is for people to think he’s seeking Merlin out. On _purpose_. In a way, it was easier when the two of them shared a tutor, or when their mums would force them to spend time together and “at least attempt to be civil about it” (attempts at which they made barely token efforts). At least then they were free to complain, given that they had literally no choice in sharing each other’s company. But nowadays whenever he grouses to Morgana about some dumb tweet Merlin has sent she points out that he could just unfollow him. Which misses the point in a truly spectacular way, as Arthur is tired of explaining.

“Merlin’s in, then?” he says, trying to convey through his tone how boring and unfortunate he finds that fact. He sighs in deep resignation. “I suppose I’d better say hello. Make sure he hasn’t, er, broken any bones while I’ve been away. You know how clumsy he is. Puts a truly unnecessary strain on our NHS budget.”

“Oh,” Freya says, looking at him uncertainly. “Um, okay. Well—have fun, I guess?” Arthur pulls a face, this time trying to convey _we both know it won’t be easy but I’ll do my noble best for the Sake of the People_.

Gaius’ suite in Buckingham Palace is fairly extensive, and Merlin’s bedroom is near the back, so he probably hasn’t heard Arthur and Freya chatting outside. As he passes through the kitchen, Arthur hears Merlin say something indistinct—which, since Freya left him a good five minutes ago, means Merlin hasn’t wasted any time in talking to himself like a crazy person. Perfect. There’s something to lead off with, then: Merlin Emrys, crazy person.

Except just as Arthur is about to push Merlin’s door open he hears his voice again, and this time it’s—well, still indistinct, but there’s a _quality_ to it that makes him pause. He listens closer and realizes, in a rush of understanding that hits him like a physical force, what he’s hearing. A breathy moan.

Merlin is jerking off.

Later on, Arthur will have a lot of time to reflect upon his actions, and he will spend quite a bit of it dwelling on one question in particular: why, upon realizing what Merlin was doing, did he immediately barge in? What was he thinking? The truth that he eventually realizes is that there was very little thinking involved at all. He recognized the sounds for what they were, and some abstract, heuristic, shortcut-loving part of his subconscious thought _Great! Embarrassing! We can use that. Go!_ and in he marched. All he really registered on a conscious level, in the actual moment, was _Great! Go!_

Because the thing is, what did Arthur plan to _do_? Of course getting caught having one off _is_ embarrassing, but he would never actually make fun of Merlin for it. He’s well out of those early years of puberty, when he and every other boy was just starting to experiment with themselves and extremely self-conscious about that fact, and the best way to deflect attention was to direct it onto others. Arthur is a mature adult, and he _also_ masturbates, obviously, and he would never dream of pointing and laughing about something like this.

But pointing and laughing isn’t _really_ what he and Merlin are about; that’s what everyone seems to get wrong. His goal isn’t so much to make fun of Merlin as it is to provoke any reaction whatsoever. That’s why, on those rare occasions Arthur and Merlin do get along, as Ygraine used to point out, they actually get along absurdly well. The same instinct that drives him to force Merlin into a stupid hat or shove lasagna in his face also drives him to try to make Merlin laugh, or show off for him, and many of his proudest (and, admittedly, least proud) moments in life have been direct results of trying to impress Merlin. (Which is ridiculous, because if there’s ever been a person less in need of impressing Arthur hasn’t met them. But maybe that’s exactly why he does it.)

So on an instinctual, lizard-brain level, Arthur knows that walking in on Merlin in a vulnerable position will get a reaction, and in he goes before his rational brain catches up to point out just _what sort_ of reaction that’s likely to be.

But there’s something else, too, one other factor that sends him barreling through the door without a second (or really even a first) thought. Arthur long ago gave up trying to find a noun for what Merlin is to him, because none of the usual ones fit—he’s not Arthur’s friend, he’s no longer his classmate, he’s far from a brother, he’s not strictly his enemy. He’s his _Merlin_ , a noun unto himself. Or, with slightly different emphasis: he’s _his_ Merlin. Arthur has always operated under the implicit, unquestioned assumption that Merlin, like the rest of Great Britain, is part of his inheritance. Merlin’s life is a book Arthur stole from the library years ago and is free to peruse at will. The idea that there are boundaries he should not cross, areas he doesn’t have access to, has simply never occurred to him.

It all makes a lot of sense later on, with the combined blessings of hindsight and ample time for leisurely self-reflection, but in the actual moment sense is in short supply. Arthur walks in the room, and there is Merlin. In bed. Lying back against the pillows, sheets and duvet kicked almost entirely to the floor. Shirt off. Trousers off. Pants off. Socks off. Everything off. Dick in hand, pink and glistening at the tip.

But it’s his _face_ that arrests Arthur’s attention, for the definition of “arrest” that most closely resembles American cop shows: his attention is tackled to the ground, beaten within an inch of its life, and shackled behind his back. Merlin’s head is thrown back—well, _was_ , now that he’s seen Arthur, all startled wide blue eyes staring right at him—his neck long and pale. His dark hair is stuck to his sweaty forehead. His chest rises and falls rapidly, color high in his cheeks, and his lips look thoroughly _bitten_ , which means he’s been biting them, which— _fuck_.

Merlin has frozen in place, like a prey animal trying the _you can’t see me if I don’t move_ trick. To be fair, it’s not like he has anywhere to hide; with the covers kicked off almost all the way, there’s no way for him to cover up that wouldn’t expose even _more_ in the process. Arthur clears his throat.

In retrospect, he’ll wish he said something cool and suave, James Bond-y, like _Need a hand?_ In the moment, he manages to force out “Can I—please—” Merlin keeps staring, and Arthur swallows hard, takes another step forward. “Can I touch you? Please?”

It’s not _quite_ begging, but Arthur’s sincerity must show—in his face or his voice or the way he’s reflexively clenching and unclenching his hands, betraying the strain in his restraint—because Merlin swallows (Arthur’s eyes latch onto his Adam’s apple) and nods, once, barely perceptible, and then again, more vigorous. “Yeah,” he says—barely a whisper, but it’s enough.

Arthur is there on the bed before Merlin has time to blink, hand wrapping around Merlin’s, which is still wrapped around his cock. Merlin’s eyelashes flutter, accompanied by a sharp intake of breath. (And _there’s_ a thought, neither fully formed nor at the forefront of his consciousness, but undeniably present: that here, at last, is a new method—perhaps the _ultimate_ method—of provoking Merlin. Arthur could spend hours exploring the various and gratifying responses it elicits.)

He starts to jack Merlin off, slow. Merlin whimpers. Occasionally Arthur’s fingers touch Merlin’s cock through the gaps between Merlin’s fingers, brushes of unbelievably smooth skin that soon have him prying Merlin’s hand away to wrap around him directly. He’s never done this before, never jerked off anyone but himself, but other than adjusting for the angle he figures the same basic principles apply. He jerks faster, setting a more persistent rhythm. Merlin bites his lip, which Arthur takes as a sign of success. He leans forward to capture Merlin’s bottom lip between his own, sucks on it, licks it, gets it between his teeth and bites down. Merlin’s mouth opens easily, and Arthur slips in his tongue. Instantly, with all the enthusiasm of having been _waiting_ , Merlin starts sucking it, completely wiping all thoughts (fully-formed and otherwise) from Arthur’s mind. He gets so thoroughly absorbed in kissing Merlin that he doesn’t realize he’s slowed and stopped the handjob until Merlin bucks into his hand, whining softly into his mouth.

Arthur pulls away, detaching from both mouth and dick.

“Okay,” he says, surveying the scene before him, trying not to let the rapid rise and fall of Merlin’s chest, the swollen redness of his lips, those stupidly long eyelashes, the weeping head of his cock, the sharp jut of his hipbones _wait_ _fuck_ —distract him. (Success is…mixed.) Arthur considers their options. He’s never given a blowjob before, something notoriously difficult to practice independently. He could give it a go, but they’re already in such uncharted territory here, and one must walk before one can run.

“Right,” he says, coming to a decision, “turn over.”

“ _What_?” Merlin chokes out, eyes wide.

Arthur rolls his eyes. “Not _that_ , you dolt. Do I look like I came here with lube?”

Merlin blinks, gaze darting up and down Arthur’s body like he’s actually considering. (He can’t possibly miss the tent in Arthur’s jeans, and Arthur feels briefly self-conscious—but considering he’s still fully dressed and Merlin is just as fully naked, sprawled back against the pillows, erection standing between them like a goddamned lighthouse, Arthur hardly has reason to complain of feeling vulnerable.)

“What are you _doing_ here, anyway?” Merlin asks (like his erection isn’t _standing between them like a goddamned lighthouse_ ).

Arthur levels him a (historically well-used) _you are deeply stupid_ look. “Dad’s birthday.”

“ _Shit_. I forgot. I gotta—card—” Merlin sits up, looking around like he’s actually going to address this problem right now. (Arthur has a sudden image of Merlin, still naked and still _hard_ , queuing at the stationery shop to buy a card that says _You’re not old, you’re vintage!_ It’s a nicer imaginary scenario than the dancing Gaius one, at least.)

“We’ve gotten off track,” Arthur says. “Turn _over_ , Merlin.”

Merlin stops fidgeting, falls back on his elbows with a glare. “Have you managed to get _bossier_?”

“It’s not bossiness, Merlin. It’s sovereignty.”

Merlin snorts. “Sovereignty my ars—” He swallows the last syllable, too late. Arthur observes with fascination how Merlin’s blush spreads down his neck to his chest, matching the pink of his ears.

“Sovereign of your arse,” Arthur says, voice gone huskier without even meaning to. He runs a hand up the inside of Merlin’s thigh, now fascinated by the way muscles clench and quiver beneath his touch. “That’s more like it.”

Merlin’s breath hitches again. “Arthur—”

“I have an idea,” he interrupts. “It’ll be easier to explain if you—just turn _over_. C’mon. Do you trust me?”

He asks without any real hope of an affirmative answer. But Merlin hesitates only a fraction of a second, eyes lingering on Arthur’s lips, before turning onto his stomach without further protest.

Arthur swallows. Right. Merlin’s arse is not nearly as bony as he would have supposed—which is not to say he’s spent a significant amount of time contemplating the thickness of Merlin’s arse, but the fact that he’s thought about it _at all_ should have been a giveaway. He stands quickly, yanking off his belt, then hesitates. Should he get completely naked? It’s not technically _necessary_ for what he wants to do, but—in for a penny, in for a pound. He makes quick work of the rest of his clothing, until he’s standing naked looking at Merlin, who is lying quietly (for once) on his stomach, head pillowed in his arms, looking off to the side like he’s listening to Arthur’s movements for clues about what he’s doing. Arthur swallows again, harder. _Right_.

He’s already half-hard—maybe more like three-quarters—and he gives himself a few swift tugs as he gets into position, kneeling on either side of Merlin’s hips.

“Okay,” he says, slightly unsteady. “I’m just gonna…” Instead of finishing, he guides his dick to the cleft between Merlin’s cheeks, head brushing over the hole but not penetrating, burying his erection in the exquisite embrace of Merlin’s arsecheeks. Merlin makes a noise into the pillow, then lifts his head enough to repeat, clearer: “ _Yes_ , yeah, keep—keep doing that.”

Arthur doesn’t need telling twice. He grips Merlin’s arse firmly, one hand on either side, pushing the cheeks together to create the right amount of pressure as he thrusts himself into the crack. It’s definitely on the dry side, but between sweat and Arthur’s precome there’s enough of a balance between slide and friction to make do. He’s unbelievably hard, as much from the way it _feels_ as the way it _looks_ , his dick sliding in and out of the cleft of Merlin’s arse, a perfect inverse of—what’s it called?—right, a tit-wank. It’s a lot _like_ that, except with every thrust his dick brushes against Merlin’s hole, and that—and the noises Merlin makes each time it happens—is its own kind of mesmerizing.

By all proper logic Merlin should be humping the mattress, or trying to wedge a hand in between to jerk himself, but instead of grinding _down_ he’s grinding _up_ , like the most important thing in the world is to feel Arthur’s erection pressing into his arse as much as possible. It’s this revelation that has Arthur letting go of Merlin’s arse and dropping onto his forearms, plastered against Merlin’s back, face buried in his neck, and letting _go_ , rutting hard and without finesse. He’s driving his dick against Merlin’s arse as though trying to fuse into him, and then he comes, blinding white-hot and out of breath, cursing through his teeth.

He rolls off, too exhausted to go far, legs still draped over Merlin’s. His semen dripping down Merlin’s arsecrack is the filthiest thing he’s ever seen, and then he thinks of something even filthier, and without a moment’s further consideration (as seems to be the order _du jour_ ) he leans over to lick it up. Merlin freezes at the touch of Arthur’s tongue in his crack, and then he _keens_ , finally shoving his hand beneath himself to get off with what seems like only one or two short strokes.

Merlin stays on his stomach as he recovers, panting and typically useless, with his arm still wedged beneath his body in what’s got to be an uncomfortable position. Arthur stretches just far enough off the bed to grab the first piece of fabric that comes to hand (a shirt with Merlin’s school’s logo on it, perfect), which he uses to clean the rest of his come off Merlin’s arse. He considers rolling Merlin over to clean up his front as well, but writes it off as too much effort. Instead he stretches even farther down the bed to grab the covers, yanking the topsheet and duvet over them both. (He deserves hearty gratitude for making even that much effort, but Merlin doesn’t give it. To be fair, he might not yet have regained full mental capacity.)

Arthur is suddenly very sleepy. Which isn’t really a surprise, what with the mind-melting orgasm (plus the more than ten hours of travel beforehand), but the speed and force with which exhaustion hits him is impressive. At least he’s not craving a drink anymore.

He forces his eyes to stay open, just because Merlin has a _look_ on his face—a mixture of post-coital bliss and worry and hope and uncertainty that shouldn’t be humanly possible to _have_ , let alone _read_ , but blame it on Merlin’s stupid tendency to overcomplicate things and Arthur’s long acquaintance with him. Luckily his new method of provoking Merlin comes with a new tool for dealing with him, so Arthur pulls him in, pressed firmly against his chest.

“Shut up and sleep.” He nuzzles Merlin’s ear, then bites down on the lobe, and finally lets his eyes fall shut. The tension leaves Merlin’s body bit by bit, muscle by muscle, until his chest rises and falls evenly beneath Arthur’s arm, which is the last thing Arthur is aware of before blessed sleep claims him.

 

ii.

Merlin wakes up with his heart hammering.

Really he wakes up gradually, fighting off consciousness at every step, because he knows this return to reality will be permanent, and he’ll have to reckon with the consequences of… _that_. That thing he’s not ready to face by even putting it in concrete terms. At least when he woke up a few hours ago, needing the loo, it was easy to keep things on the level of immediate, task-level concerns; he just had to get up, find his way to the toilet without turning on the light (which would risk eye contact with himself in the mirror, which would blow the whole thing wide open), and crawl back into bed without admitting any treacherous _thoughts_. In the cover of darkness, the way Arthur—still asleep—drew him back in to the warm shelter of his arms, hooking a leg over Merlin’s, could be experienced ( _enjoyed_ , even) without having to confront what it meant or why it was happening or where they could possibly go from here. But now, with sunlight staining the wall and Arthur’s breath hot on the back of his neck and a hard dick pressing into his arse, just as it had last night, when they had both been fully conscious of and _intentional_ with their actions, and—

“Shut _up_ , Merlin,” Arthur mumbles, pressing his lips (and then his tongue, and then his _teeth_ , and there he goes, biting again on Merlin’s earlobe, worrying it between his teeth, and Merlin narrowly avoids whimpering) into the skin behind Merlin’s ear.

“I didn’t say anything.”

“I can hear you thinking.” Arthur runs a hand down Merlin’s chest, over his by-now-hammering heart, skating lightly across his hipbone—then gripping on. Merlin turns his head into his arm, biting down to keep from making noise, just in time, as Arthur, with the pleased-sounding mumbles of someone who has just woken up in a human body for the first time and is now discovering the pleasure of having his erect penis rub against something, thrusts lightly against him.

Which is all it takes for Merlin to resign himself to the relief (oxymoronic as it is) of not thinking for a little while longer, with the resolutely unacknowledged knowledge that there will be no more getting out of it once they’re finished. Isn’t the damage already done? They’ve already had sex once, so surely once more can’t make things _worse_. (That’s a damned lie and he knows it, but it’s difficult—so blessedly difficult—to think anything so rational when Arthur is moving against him like _that_.)

They’re on their sides this time, and Arthur reaches around to take Merlin in hand with the confidence of someone who knows _this_ angle very well. Merlin reaches back to grip Arthur’s hip, tilts his head to allow better access to neck and throat, and determinedly does not notice every little thing that’s new this time, whether it’s Arthur sucking a love bite into his skin or Merlin moaning Arthur’s name when he comes all over his hand. (It’s easier to preserve the fiction that two times is no worse than one if he ignores every detail that separates the two.) This strategy backfires slightly when Arthur comes spurting into his arsecrack once again, and Merlin has the wholly unbidden thought that he could get used to this, which is all _kinds_ of things he _shouldn’t_ be thinking, and really he shouldn’t be thinking at _all_ , it isn’t _fair_ , let him have _two minutes_ of post-high blankness for the _love_ of—

“I’m going to take a shower,” Arthur announces, which actually does manage to bring Merlin’s runaway thoughts to an abrupt halt.

“What?” he says dumbly, sitting up.

“A shower, Merlin,” is all Arthur says, before the bathroom door is slamming shut and the water is turning on and holy _shit_ , Merlin just had sex with Arthur, _twice_ , what the actual FUCK.

Before Merlin can spiral into a full-blown panic, someone knocks on the door. “Merlin?” calls Gaius’ voice. “Are you up?”

“Um,” Merlin says, looking around in an entirely different kind of panic for anything that might resemble clothes. He finds a pair of boxers that aren’t his, briefly considers putting them on, narrowly avoids getting pulled into a panic-spiral about what _that_ would mean, throws them aside, picks up a t-shirt that’s definitely his but that he discovers just before he’s about to pull it on is stained with come, wonders whether it’s his or Arthur’s, decides it doesn’t matter, realizes Arthur must have used it as a rag while Merlin was still floating somewhere near Jupiter, that absolute prick, Merlin loves this shirt, right, focus: _clothes_ , finally finds his own underwear, yanks it on, finds his sweats immediately after, same result, great: dressed enough, and opens the door.

“I made waffles,” Gaius says.

Too late, Merlin realizes that by opening the door he has allowed Gaius to perceive two things: one, that the shower is running in Merlin’s bathroom, and two, that Merlin is not in it. Because _Arthur_ is taking a shower in Merlin’s bathroom, probably using Merlin’s shampoo, cleaning up because they just had _sex_ , _twice_ , holy actual fuck what is happening.

“Arthur’s using my shampoo,” he blurts.

Gaius’ eyebrow goes up. Of course. Of all the things to come out of Merlin’s mouth, all the possible reasons and explanations and rational admissions, he went with _Arthur’s using my shampoo_. He’s an idiot. All this time Arthur has been calling him one, totally unjustly, and now he’s gone and fucked Merlin into actual idiocy. Irony is cruel.

“I see,” Gaius says, accepting this statement with surprising ease. “Is his own shower not working? I heard his flight got delayed. Always something, isn’t it?”

“Sure is!” says Merlin, or possibly an extraterrestrial being who has taken control of Merlin’s body to speak for him, given that he clearly can’t be trusted to speak for himself, and is having a slightly out-of-body experience wherein he’s lost all awareness of the connection between his brain and mouth. He just hears himself say things at the same time Gaius does. It’s an interesting way to live. He wonders how long it’ll go on for.

Gaius goes back into the kitchen, where sure enough a stack of waffles wafts tantalizing steam into the air. Before Merlin can decide what to do—besides stand gormlessly in the doorway, which he’s already nailing—the door to his bathroom opens and Arthur emerges, towel slung low around his hips, water dripping off his every angle, each one of which Merlin is recently extremely familiar with.

“Gaius made waffles,” Merlin hears himself say. Arthur stares at him a moment.

“Excellent, I’m starving,” Arthur says, and moves past him to the table.

So they eat waffles, the three of them, Merlin in his sweats, the Prince of Wales in a towel, and Gaius in actual clothes. They have a surprisingly normal conversation, touching on Arthur’s recent trips to Bermuda and several African countries and his upcoming time in Nicaragua, as well as on Merlin’s increasingly frantic A-Level preparations, plans for Uther’s birthday later in the day ( _card_ , Merlin reminds himself), and Gaius’ night out with his friends (which actually sounds rather rowdy, although Merlin can’t discern the source of Arthur’s pointed questioning about whether Gaius danced on any tables). As they eat, Merlin feels his normal state of consciousness gradually return, and by the time they’re washing up dishes he’s responding to Gaius and provoking annoyance in Arthur as regularly as ever. He almost forgets what’s changed, until Arthur rather carefully announces that he’s going into Merlin’s room to dress, and Merlin thinks of the boxers that aren’t his, and holy fuck, this again.

Shit.

 

He locks himself in his room to revise through Uther’s birthday celebrations, which really means he stares at a textbook and tries to solve for _x_ when all the factors are things like the bruise that’s rapidly developing on his throat and the look in Arthur’s eyes when he walked in and said _please?_ and whether he’s ever going to be able to wear that shirt again without getting constantly distracted (or worse, hard). By the time he’s ready to crawl into bed that night he’s exhausted just from all the thinking, and then he finds that his sheets are stained with come (twice over) and his other set is still in the hamper and he’ll have to do laundry before he can get some goddamned peace of mind, if such a thing is possible.

It’s not. By the next morning he’s resolved to his fate. Arthur will be leaving in a matter of days—today, possibly; Merlin was still a little out of it when Arthur explained his schedule at breakfast—and they can’t just go their separate ways for who-knows-how-long without at least having a conversation about…all of this. That in mind, shoulders squared, resolute in his conviction, Merlin knocks on the door to Arthur’s suite.

Arthur opens the door. “Merlin,” he says, sounding…pleased? Formal? Resigned? Uncertain? Expectant? None of the above? Merlin has no idea. Usually he can read Arthur well, but at the moment he can barely read himself. The emotions of others are laughably beyond him. “Excellent, I was just about to go looking. Come in.”

Merlin does, and Arthur shuts the door behind him. And then drops to his knees.

“What are you doing?” Merlin squeaks, back against the door. Arthur looks at him like he’s deeply stupid. (He really ought to have that look patented; Merlin’s seen it enough times. Never from this angle, though.)

“We can’t keep doing the exact same thing, _Mer_ lin,” Arthur says, like this is obvious, while simultaneously unzipping Merlin’s trousers. Merlin’s hand pushes into Arthur’s hair of its own accord (possible return of the E.T.?). “Now,” Arthur says, with a hard set of his jaw, as though expecting Merlin to poke fun and already warning him off it, “I’ve never done this before, but I’m familiar with the basic principles. Just—tell me if I’m doing well. Or if I do something you don’t like. Don’t—I’m not trying to open myself up to your _mockery_ here, but no one improves without feedback.”

Mocking Arthur is the farthest thing from Merlin’s mind, possibly even beyond telling him to stop. “I like what you’re doing now,” he blurts.

Arthur gives him a weird look. “What, _talking_? You’ve never liked it much before.”

“That’s not true.” Then, before ~~he~~ the extraterrestrial can say anything else he’ll regret, Merlin adds, “I meant being on your knees. Um. Having my dick in your hands.”

Arthur sighs. “Well, this should be easy,” he mutters, while he strokes Merlin a few times to get him hard (which does prove easy, even unnecessary). “You’ve got no standards. Honestly Merlin, you can’t go praising the _necessary components_ of a blowjob, it throws off the entire rubric.” And then he starts licking Merlin’s cock, and Merlin does his best to provide feedback, even if it turns out to be somewhat incoherent.

 

iii.

The upshot of it all is that Arthur does indeed leave for Nicaragua without them having a rational conversation about anything other than the finer points of giving head.

Life goes back to normal, or as normal as it can now that Merlin’s had sex with his semi?-fren?-emy? the Prince of Wales on three separate occasions. He stops hooking up with Will, because he can’t be fucking _two_ people he’s known since childhood. (He feels a bit bad, especially since Will is really the reason things happened with Arthur at all. After Freya left—having invited herself over for what she called a _mandatory period of socialization, honestly Merlin, you can’t study_ all _the time, when’s the last time you saw sunlight or talked to someone who wasn’t Gaius_ —he checked his phone to find he’d missed a text from Will that read _horny. wanna cum over (haha CUM geddit)_ about an hour previous. When Merlin hadn’t responded right away, Will had sent another: _nvm, gonna jerk off to the thought of iron man fucking me with his armor on, cheers_. With Freya gone, Merlin discovered he really wasn’t all that eager to get back to schoolwork, and decided she might have had a good point about needing to de-stress—and even though she probably hadn’t meant he should do it via masturbation, the thought was already in his head. Which was how Merlin wound up totally naked (inspired by Will’s imagination, he went with a _in a cave with Captain America and we have to strip off and huddle for warmth_ fantasy) and moaning when Arthur barged in in his typically ask-no-questions take-no-prisoners style.)

Fortunately Will doesn’t seem to mind when Merlin turns down all further invitations to sex. To be fair, their hookups were of the _any port in a storm_ variety, after Merlin had broken up with Brian and Will found himself rejected by more girls/guys on Tinder/Grindr than his fragile seventeen-year-old ego could take. Whereas Arthur…well, Merlin doesn’t know what the precise motivation was there, no more than he knows the precise nature of their relationship, now or ever. And while it’s a bit soon and extreme to say that Arthur has ruined him for other sex (although a disappointing blowjob around Christmas does put that frankly terrifying thought into Merlin’s head), he’s at least ruined him for other people he’s known since childhood. Nothing with Will felt like _that_.

Which is the real reason Merlin ends it, given it’s safe to say he’s not fuck _ing_ Arthur in present tense. They had one fever dream weekend, that’s all. Merlin doesn’t even see Arthur again for another five months. He hears a few things, mostly from Gaius, about how Arthur is spending his time in Nicaragua—building houses, teaching children, partying his arse off. Merlin is able to read between the lines (and the eyebrow) that while Uther isn’t exactly _pleased_ , Arthur has maintained enough good sense not to make a complete spectacle of himself, so the gap year-ier bits of his gap year are grudgingly tolerated.

Merlin spends the first days of Arthur’s return to Buckingham for Uther’s Ruby Jubilee wandering corridors at random, telling himself he’s following the advice of an article that suggested physical movement is helpful for motivating the brain into scholasticism, even though he read it ten months ago and never once considered trying it til today. The gods of luck call his bluff with three days in which he neither encounters Arthur nor gets any work done. It’s not until the fourth day, when he’s rushing home from a tutoring session to get ready for a double date he stupidly agreed to go on with Elena and her girlfriend and some bloke called Julian (which was originally supposed to be later in the day, but Merlin rescheduled because he doesn’t want to miss the sight of Arthur in his dress uniform, AKA lacks any sense of restraint or self-respect), that he runs into Arthur by complete accident.

“We’ve had this argument already,” Arthur is saying in the next room over. (Okay, so not _complete_ accident, but one room over is hardly out of Merlin’s way, is it? It’s practically a shortcut, if shortcuts added seconds on rather than taking them away.) “More than a year ago, I seem to recall.”

“But we never reached an agreement. Oh good, Merlin’s here,” Morgana says, catching sight of him. “You can settle this. Is it _gif_ or _jif_?”

“Um.” It’s been two seconds and Merlin is already regretting his latest failure of restraint and self-respect. He can feel Arthur’s gaze on him—worse, can feel the flush spreading up his neck that that gaze apparently elicits now—and keeps his own resolutely on Morgana. “I think _gif_. Hard g.”

“There, you see?” Arthur says, sounding unbearably smug. Merlin risks a look at him; at least when he’s thinking about Arthur being unbearably smug, he’s not thinking about him rubbing naked up against Merlin. (Although _now_ he is. Oops.)

“Sorry,” Merlin says to Morgana. “If I’d known which side you were on, I wouldn’t have agreed with Prince Prat.”

Arthur doesn’t get the opportunity to register offense before someone else is coming in: Morgana’s awful friend (as Merlin tends to think of her, like it’s a title) Morgause.

Morgana tries to pull her into the _gif_ versus _jif_ debate, but Morgause just takes it as an opportunity to remark on the worthlessness of the English language and how superior French is in every respect.

“I take it back,” Arthur mutters as Morgana responds enthusiastically. “I’m on whatever side she’s not.”

Having sidled closer to Arthur in an attempt to put as much distance between himself and Morgause as possible, Merlin says, “Do the French even _have_ a different word for gif?”

Arthur snorts. “I can think of several French phrases to describe _her_. I gave her a hug when she got here and she told me to stop oppressing her with my male body.”

Merlin sighs. “I once heard her say the same thing to the Earl of Sussex. At his wife’s funeral.”

“I have this theory that if Morgause were male, she’d be one of those men’s rights activists.”

“Probably. God knows she’s not above—”

Merlin cuts himself off as Morgause turns toward them, eyes narrowing. Her gaze flits between them.

“Did you two have sex?”

Arthur makes a sound like he’s choking on his own tongue.

“What?” Merlin squeaks. “No. No! Why would you even—”

Morgana laughs. “Come on, Go, stop teasing them. Arthur, you’ve got to change. Trooping the Colour starts in half an hour.”

Arthur leaves on Morgana’s heels, clearly eager to get away from Morgause (and Merlin in Morgause’s presence) as quickly as possible. Merlin is left in the room with Morgause, which is the most terrifying thing that’s ever happened to him.

“…Was it like a drunken quickie in a bathroom or something?” she says, and Merlin flees.

 

The date is all right. It’s immediately clear that there’s zero romantic or sexual chemistry between him and Julian, but they get on well enough in a friendly way, and Elena and Willow are always good fun. There’s a dicey moment when Julian gets wind that they’re Trooping the Colour only a block away; Merlin has to come up with a couple creative excuses to avoid getting dragged to see the parade (in light of Morgause's insight, he's thought better of public gawking), but he pulls it off and makes it back to the palace without incident. He’s barely made it inside when someone says his name.

“Merlin, thank God,” says Anna, a member of Uther’s press team. She thrusts a giant purse into his arms. “Hold onto this for me, darling? We’ve had an intern call in sick, absolute nightmare, excuse me—” Her next words are directed into a headset, something that sounds an awful lot like _the Lion is on the prowl, repeat, the Lion is on the prowl toward Pride Rock_. She gestures at him to follow, and Merlin can only do as instructed.

The foreboding in his gut turns out to be well-merited when he finds himself plastered against a wall in the Centre Room, trying to stay out of the way of various staff and security and members of the royal family as the latter troop out onto the balcony for the traditional smile-and-wave. His position puts him at a perfect angle to see Arthur (shed of his fuzzy column of a hat) in his scarlet military tunic that accentuates his waist completely unfairly. The skirt jacket is a little too long for Merlin’s taste; Arthur leans forward slightly, mid-wave, to get a glimpse of something Morgana’s pointed out to him, treating Merlin to the barest hint of bum in dark trousers that are just a little too loose-fitting for Merlin’s taste. (He never realized he had such decided opinions about military dress until now.) And then Arthur turns and catches him looking.

Merlin’s mouth goes dry. Arthur’s tongue darts out to wet his lips. His gaze holds Merlin’s for one beat, two, three, _four_ , fuck— Too long, and now Anna’s hissing into her headset _why isn’t the Dragon looking at the fucking people_ , and Uther’s head of security is following Arthur’s eyes to Merlin with brows raised, and Morgana has to kick Arthur in the shin (out of sight of the (fucking) people thanks to sumptuous bunting) to get him to pay attention.

Merlin lets out a breath he hadn’t meant to hold. He’s not entirely sure whether it’s his legs or the wall keeping him upright.

Finally Uther gives one last wave and turns to lead the way off the balcony. The doors shut, the noise of the crowd dims, Anna takes her purse back, and Arthur makes quick eye contact with Merlin and jerks his head toward the door.

“Right, well,” Merlin says to absolutely no one, pushing away from the wall. His gaze darts around the room, but no one seems to be paying any attention either to him or the remarkable briskness with which Arthur is exiting the room. So Merlin follows.

He has just long enough, as he trails Arthur down the corridor, around a corner, down more of the same corridor, around another corner, up the stairs, and down a different corridor, to wonder what the hell he’s doing, and then they’re in Arthur’s bedroom again and this time it’s Merlin going down on his knees before the door is even fully shut.

“There’s a bed, you know,” Arthur says, hand curling around the back of Merlin’s neck. Merlin ignores him. There’s something about the immaculateness of Arthur in full dress—the perfect crease of his trousers, the mirror shine of his shoes—that makes Merlin desperate to suck his cock in this exact position. (He briefly considers making Arthur find his white gloves and put them back on.) He has to push aside the flaps of Arthur’s jacket to undo his trousers, fingers clumsy on the buttons, but _there_ , finally, Arthur’s cock springs free, thick and already hard.

Merlin wastes no time getting his mouth and Arthur’s dick intimately acquainted. It’s different from last time, not only because their positions are reversed. Arthur orders him to stop when Merlin tries pushing a hand into his own trousers, which is just unfair. That’s what Arthur did when they were the other way around, and _Merlin_ didn’t stop _him_.

It turns out to be worth it, though. Merlin doesn’t like to boast, but it’s by far the best blowjob he’s ever given. (He’s given fewer than a dozen, but that’s not _nothing_.) Arthur comes in his mouth, and Merlin takes _all_ of it, bobbing and sucking through the entirety of Arthur’s ejaculation and the aftershocks before he finally pulls off with a wet pop. Arthur gets a hand on his elbow and yanks him up, the other hand finishing the half-done work of Merlin’s fly to wrap around his dick.

“Don’t—” Merlin pants into his ear, words totally belied by the way he’s already thrusting into Arthur’s grip. “Your uniform—it’ll stain—”

“ _Good_ ,” Arthur growls, giving Merlin’s cock a particularly ferocious twist, and that sends him tumbling over the edge, coming hard and slippery into Arthur’s hand. The sight of his come (good _God_ , there’s a lot of it, Merlin doesn’t think he’s ever come in such superabundance in his life) all over Arthur’s scarlet jacket is the hottest thing he’s ever seen; the thought of Arthur having to get it cleaned, the creative excuses _he’ll_ have to come up with to avoid explaining what happened, is almost enough to get him hard again already.

 

iv.

Arthur visits home a few more times during his gap year, and each time he and Merlin wind up having stupidly incredible sex that they don’t talk about beyond _fuck_ , _yeah_ , _more_ , and _please_.

They both start at Oxford that autumn, which seems like a spectacularly terrible idea on multiple levels but apparently can’t be helped. Merlin quickly develops a reputation among his friends (well, Gwen, mostly) of doing the opposite of seemingly every other student and going out of his way to _avoid_ seeing Prince Arthur. He’s upfront (or dishonest, depending how you want to look at it) from the beginning about having known Arthur growing up; the version of the story he gives is that they don’t get along particularly well and aren’t really close, which is perfectly true in an Obi-Wan-ish way, AKA from a certain point of view. He does a good job with the avoidance, too, right up until Gwen drags him to a Magadalen bop near the end of Michelmas term, and he and Arthur fulfill Morgause’s prophecy by having a drunken quickie in the bathroom.

After that, all bets are off. (Well, after winter hols, only because Merlin and Arthur are conveniently separated by nearly five hundred miles.) In public, they are cool acquaintances; in private, Arthur gives Merlin his first proper penetrative fuck, hammering his prostate with enough prowess to have Merlin promising him ridiculous, barely-coherent things, like _yes please more I want that please fuck God don’t stop, I’ll be your sex slave, I’ll live with your cock down my throat, you can wear me like a dick puppet_ _don’t you dare fucking stop oh god fuck yes Arthur_. (It’s not until after, when he’s lying exhausted with Arthur’s arm draped bonelessly across his chest, that it occurs to Merlin that a) Arthur has never once asked him to be his sex slave, b) living with Arthur’s cock down his throat is an impractical notion at best, and c) “wear me like a dick puppet” is hands-down the most ludicrous thing he’s ever said, even more so than “Arthur’s using my shampoo,” and hardly even sexy, bringing to mind that episode of _Scrubs_ with the Muppet X-ray that shows a skeletal hand inside—which makes him think of getting an X-Ray showing Arthur’s dick so far up him it’s kissing his internal organs, which is _again_ so ludicrous as to be wholly unsexy but for some reason gets him ready to go another round, and then he has to sit on Arthur’s dick and the whole process starts all over again.)

It’s the textbook definition of casual, no-strings-attached sex. Except.

Having sex only when they happen to run into each other, like they have been for the past…year and a quarter (oh _God_ ), results in frustratingly infrequent encounters, so _whenever they happen to run into each other_ becomes _whenever one of them texts the other to come over_ , which during Trinity term becomes _whenever one of them texts and also_ _every Thursday night_ , because Arthur has a tutorial on Merton Street that puts him near Corpus every Thursday around seven, which is conveniently also when Merlin’s nosy hallmate is out for his meetings of the Society for Rich Pricks or whatever.

Which makes perfect sense, except it doesn’t explain why, when Merlin texts Arthur one Thursday afternoon to let him know he’s sick and dying and is neither figuratively nor literally up for sex, Arthur shows up a few hours later anyway, bearing takeout. They eat on the sofa while watching _Strictly Come Dancing_ , ranking all the outfits from ridiculous to preposterous. (Merlin does offer to suck Arthur’s dick—well, he offers to pathetically lick a couple of times and then probably cough all over it, a proposal he’s not surprised Arthur leaves on the table.)

Nor does it explain why, when Arthur suggests they carpool down to London for Morgana’s birthday, Merlin finds himself looking forward to it all week. (Any normal person would take the train, of course, and the fact that he instantly agrees to a method of transportation that increases travel time by half when Arthur asks is surely sign that Merlin has hit his head one too many times during sex and has severe brain damage.)

Arthur comes to pick him up, hunkering low in the driver’s seat with a cap and sunglasses like something out of a really bad spy movie. Merlin puts himself in charge of music over Arthur’s protests and cues up the _Mamma Mia!_ soundtrack, which Arthur complains about for the length of precisely one song before he’s belting out the lyrics to _Money, Money, Money_ at the top of his lungs. (The irony of the heir to over a millennium of monarchial excess singing about slaving to pay bills and wishing he could bag a rich husband isn’t lost on Merlin, though he supposes it’s hardly worse than when Meryl Streep or the actual members of ABBA sing it.) When they get to _Lay All Your Love On Me_ , Arthur pulls over so Merlin can clamber into his lap to snog him thoroughly. He finds the release on Arthur’s seat that sends him sliding back, making just enough room for Merlin to kneel in the footwell and suck him off. It occurs to Merlin, distant but provoking, that this is not so much the behavior of two people having casual no-strings-attached sex as it is of giddy newlyweds on their honeymoon, but then Arthur orgasms and he’s distracted by more pressing concerns.

He hits his head on the steering wheel as he climbs back up, awkwardly wedging himself sideways between Arthur and the door. Arthur strokes him lazily, half-lidded eyes roaming Merlin’s face like he’s mapping him for further exploration, smiling in a way that seems unaware and unbidden, warm and affectionate. He leans forward to capture Merlin’s lips in a kiss, soft and yielding; they keep kissing through Merlin’s orgasm and even after, long past the point they could justify the swirl of tongues and pecks at the corners of lips as leading to any kind of sexual fulfillment.

It turns out to be the only sex of the weekend, as there’s so much going on between Morgana’s birthday and catching up with London friends and Arthur getting pulled in by the ever-grabby hands of Uther’s household administration. They see each other only a few times—at Morgana’s party, of course, when they regale her with tales of their (separate) Oxford adventures, and once when Arthur has been captured by the Duke of Wessex. He catches Merlin’s eye and smiles, then makes a face to demonstrate the desperation of his situation; Merlin pulls a sympathetic face in return, which he turns into a grotesque mask of horror that fairly accurately represents how he feels about the Duke of Wessex in general. Arthur has to look down to force away a laugh, the corners of his eyes crinkling, and Merlin can feel the exact moment his heart leaps out of his chest and bounces across the floor to land at Arthur’s feet.

Oh.

Oops.

His bed in Gaius’ apartments feels cold and empty that night, even though it’s hardly the norm for him to share a bed with Arthur anyway, not unless one of them is over for sex and accidentally falls asleep before they can go home. The ride back to Oxford is quieter, both of them tired from the long weekend, but nothing about the silence is strained, just warm and companionable, a bubble of peace crawling up the M40 through the dark. Alone in his room, Merlin keeps reaching for his phone, wanting to text Arthur—not even for sex, as he has an early lecture in the morning in addition to being tired, but just to check in, just to regain the contact that he apparently can no longer go any length of time (and it’s been about _fifteen minutes_ ) without. He has to force himself to put the phone down a dozen times, and he’s just on the verge of locking it in a drawer when it buzzes and he lunges across his bed to grab it. It’s a text from Arthur that’s just the balloon emoji. It literally means nothing, but (or maybe not _but_ but _so_ ) it fills Merlin’s chest with the warmth and lightness of exactly what it is. He knows full well it will hurt like hell when the balloon pops but doesn’t know what he can do to stop it.

(Well. That’s a lie. He knows.)

It’s so hard now, when a single text from Arthur (less than half of which are sex-related these days, the rest made up of random observations and memes he thinks Merlin will find funny and links to every article Buzzfeed publishes about himself, which is a lot) can send Merlin’s heart somersaulting. He hasn’t had sex with anyone else since they started Oxford, he realizes. He hasn’t even wanted to, hasn’t given it a single thought. That probably should have clued him in sooner.

 

“I can’t do this anymore.”

Merlin gives himself no credit for nobility. After all, he’s known he’ll have to end things for weeks, and now that it’s the last Thursday of Trinity term he didn’t do anything to stop Arthur coming over. And once Arthur was over, he didn’t do anything to stop the sex, either—if anything, he threw himself into it with all the fatalistic zeal of someone imbuing casual sex with way too much emotion, because he knows it’s the last time _because_ he’s imbuing casual sex with too much emotion. It was all he could do, when Arthur pushed in, to keep from locking his legs around him and refusing to ever let go. He _did_ lock on tighter than usual, not letting Arthur pull out enough to get leverage for big thrusts, forcing him to stay in deep and roll his hips in shallow little motions that were simultaneously unbearably frustrating and deliciously perfect. It took a good deal longer that way, without the hard pounding that usually builds into orgasm, but Merlin was glad of it, and when Arthur came groaning into his neck after more than ten agonizing minutes of this it still felt too soon.

Arthur pulled out and took Merlin’s cock in both hands, torturing him with long, slow strokes while Merlin squirmed and panted beneath him. “Come for me, love,” Arthur murmured, low and gruff, and Merlin did.

Now they’re lying in opposite directions on the sofa, Arthur with his tablet on his chest, reading the news, and Merlin has blurted out _I can’t do this anymore_ without any sort of preamble or mental preparation. It’s just that their legs are all tangled together, and Arthur’s thumb is absently rubbing circles into Merlin’s ankle, and he said _Come for me, love,_ and how is any of that fair?

Arthur looks up, brow creasing. “Can’t do what?”

“This.” Merlin gestures between them, their naked bodies, scooting back on the sofa to bring his knees up to his chest. “Just—sneaking around, not telling anyone, even our friends, barely making eye contact in public. I can’t do it. It’s too—I don’t—it’s _shit_.”

Arthur sits up, too, though he doesn’t draw his legs up, leaving his foot pressed against Merlin’s ankle. He puts the tablet on the floor and sighs, running a hand through his already mussed hair.

“I know. It _is_ shit. I feel it too. I wish there was some way… But it’s the media, you know? The media and the country and the Commonwealth and the goddamn rest of the world. Uni is the closest I’ve got—probably the closest I’ll ever have—to a retreat from all that, a time to just be left alone, at least relatively speaking. And if we went public with this, for whatever definition of _public_ you like, it would be the end of that privacy. Not just for me, obviously, but you as well. You see that, right? You understand?”

Merlin gapes. Arthur’s looking at him—earnest and hopeful and _open_ —and Merlin’s about as far from understanding as he can get.

“You mean you…” he tries. He stops, reconfigures. “Wait. Hold on. If you were—hypothetically— _not_ the Prince of Wales, if you were just some bloke called Arthur and we were at Oxford and we were doing _this_ , you know, hooking up, and—if that were the only thing different, you’d want to go public?”

Arthur gives him a funny look. “If I were just some bloke called Arthur, I highly doubt the public would be _interested_ in who I was fucking, _Mer_ lin.”

“Right, obviously. But, I mean—our friends? General…people? Acquaintances? You wouldn’t mind them knowing?”

“No,” Arthur says, still giving him that funny look (it teeters on _you are deeply stupid_ territory, but Merlin’s not going to focus on that now). “If it didn’t mean ending up on the cover of  _People_ pulling an Ellen, I’d be taking you out on proper dates. I’m not _that_ much of a skinflint.”

“Oh,” Merlin says, slightly faint. It’s like the whole world has suddenly shifted into a different focus, like he’s just gotten new glasses and is now seeing what others have apparently been seeing this whole time. Arthur doesn’t think they _are_ having casual, no-strings-attached sex. Arthur thinks they’re in a secret relationship. Or, to put it another way: they _are_ in a secret relationship, and Merlin just hasn’t noticed.

It’s still a bit shit, of course, with the hiding, but—well. Considering he’s gone from thinking he’s the pathetic person who’s caught feelings in a strictly-sex situation, to finding out he’s really a person in an actual relationship that has to stay on the down-low to avoid reporters knocking down the door while he’s trying to do homework/have sex/eat curry, it is, least to say, a marked improvement.

“I have to delete my Grindr profile,” he says.

Arthur narrows his eyes. “You have a Grindr profile?”

“I don’t really use it. I haven’t actually—erm, I haven’t hooked up with anyone since we started school.”

Arthur clears his throat. If Merlin didn’t know better, he’d say Arthur is turning faintly pink. “Not since Nicaragua for me.”

It takes a moment for that to sink in. “Nic—that was almost a year ago. Wasn’t it nearly July when you got back? And we didn’t start hooking up more regularly until—what, _January_?”

Arthur glares. “And? Can we return to what you mean by you don’t _really_ use Grindr?”

Merlin grins, something like giddiness bubbling inside him. He gamely grabs his phone from the side table and scoots closer to Arthur. (How did they wind up on this topic? Never mind, he should probably be grateful they’re not discussing shampoo.) “I just use it for fun, like a mobile game after I got sick of Candy Crush. Gwaine plays with me sometimes, we do themes, like swipe yes on anyone with a mustache, but no beards. But I never respond to anyone, see?”

He pulls up a conversation at random to prove to Arthur that it is, indeed, fully one-sided, unsolicited dick pics and all. Not that he _has_ to prove anything, given that Arthur somehow never saw fit to let him in on the fact that they _were_ in anything like an exclusive relationship, but there will be time to quibble later.

 

Later—after they’ve had dinner and watched a movie and spent half an hour arguing over the correct ranking of all the films in the _Fast and Furious_ franchise (none of which is out of the usual, so maybe Merlin should have cottoned on to being in a relationship sooner)—Arthur has an idea.

“We should get a flat together. Next year, I mean. If we have a flat it’ll be loads easier to sneak around without actually having to _sneak around_.”

“Won’t our friends think it’s a bit odd that we’ve chosen to move in together, given that we’ve just spent a year claiming not to have spoken two words since secondary school?”

Arthur frowns. “We’ll have to build up to it. Didn’t your internship fall through?”

“Yes?”

“So come intern at Buckingham.”

Merlin laughs.

“I’m serious,” Arthur protests. “We always take loads of interns, and it’s not like you’ll have any trouble getting in. Beverly runs all that and she loves you.”

“It’s because I’m the only one who’ll eat her ginger biscuits.”

“She puts _garlic_ in them, Merlin, that’s not _normal_. You can get a position in my household and tell people it’s because you needed something for summer and had an in and the money is good—which is all _true_ —and then you can just spend the summer with me. Come Michaelmas we can put it ‘round that we grew closer as friends and it won’t look weird when we get a flat.”

“You just want to put me to work. You’ve been trying for the past twelve years to make me one of your servants, and this is an elaborate con you’ve come up with to trick me into it.”

“Guilty,” Arthur says, grinning wickedly as he pushes Merlin’s knees apart and starts kissing the inside of his pajama-clad thigh. Merlin shuts up, which he knows only plays into Arthur’s short con—to get him to stop objecting—but sometimes sacrifices must be made in service of the larger picture.

 

v.

It happens exactly as Arthur says: Merlin takes the internship (Beverly vows to give him the recipe for her ginger-garlic biscuits, and Merlin vows to shove them into Arthur’s mouth when he’s not looking until he’s converted), he flies around as a member of Arthur’s household on various matters of state (which is another way of saying they have sex in various international locations), and by the time they return to school in autumn their friends find it perfectly natural that they should rent a flat together. Gwen even compliments Merlin on his remarkable maturity in putting his childhood discord with Arthur behind him and getting to know him as an adult. (Merlin has to bite back a joke about all the _adult_ ways he _knows_ Arthur, including times he’s put Arthur _behind_ him, partly because it would have given everything away and partly because it would have been truly terrible.)

On paper, one bedroom in the flat Merlin’s and one is Arthur’s; in practice, Merlin has to remember to go move things around and muss up the sheets in his own so when they have people over it doesn’t look like an apartment inhabited by one human and one ghost. He does hate that they’re lying to all their friends (who are increasingly _their_ friends, rather than Merlin’s friends and Arthur’s friends), especially now they’ve stopped lying to themselves. It’s one thing to keep a sneaky-casual-occasional-hookup-thing from one’s nearest and dearest, quite another to hide away an entire serious relationship. But Arthur has a point, which is: as long as their relationship is a secret between the two of them, the worst their friends can do is _suspect_. Once they let even just their closest circle in, it inevitably becomes a rumor in the larger Oxford community. Once the larger Oxford community knows, it becomes a rumor in the press. And once the press knows, of course, there’s no more rumor. The whole world will know.

There’s stages to it, which is comforting, but three stages is terrifyingly few to stand between Merlin and international scrutiny, especially when kicking off one stage starts a potentially-slow-but-definitely-irreversible slide into the next. As long as they’re the only two with the certain truth of it, they remain the only two people _in their relationship_ , which is as it should be, but (as Merlin is far too aware) not as it will always be.

So Michaelmas term (which sees two years since Arthur first walked in and said _please_ ) passes happy and sad, more the former than the latter. (The saddest part is that Merlin has to mask how deliriously happy he is most of the time.) Though for all that Arthur is the one—with perfectly good reason—requiring them to keep things secret, he’s also far worse at keeping that secret.

When Gwaine, whose own phone is somewhere at the bottom of the Isis (long story), grabs Merlin’s to show him some hot bloke on Grindr, he winds up swiping through Merlin’s apps with increasing confusion.

“What self-respecting gay man doesn’t have Grindr?” he demands to know.

“Maybe one who actually _has_ self-respect,” Merlin says, deflecting with cheek and earning himself a violent pat (or gentle slap, depending on how one wants to see it) on his actual cheek.

“Why’d you get rid of it? Think of the mustaches! Even more important, you need to get some arse.”

“That’s a good point, you know,” puts in Gwen. Merlin shoots her a betrayed look.

“What, that I need to _get some arse_?”

“I wouldn’t have put it _quite_ that way, but yes. In all the time I’ve known you, have you ever actually dated? I know you did before.”

“ _Brian_ ,” Arthur mutters darkly, taking a moody sip of whisky. Merlin coughs.

“Who’s talking about _dating_?” Gwaine says. “I repeat: arse. You need some. I’m genuinely worried about your sex life, Merlin.”

“I’m not,” Arthur says loudly. Merlin kicks him under the table, but the damage is done.

“Ooh, do you know something we don’t?” Gwen says, intrigued. “You are his flatmate. Come on, spill. Does Merlin actually bring home men all the time and we just never know?”

“No one likes a kiss-and-never-tell, Merlin,” Gwaine says, wagging a finger in his face.

“Let’s talk about some other uncomfortable subject,” Merlin interjects, before Arthur can completely lose his head and decide to satisfy Gwen’s far-too-interested interest. “Don’t let me hog the floor. How’s everyone’s finances, hm?”

There’s a brief pause that Merlin thinks means he’s successfully shamed the table into silence.

“I mean, not bad,” Arthur says, and everyone laughs.

 

Sadly for Merlin’s sanity, that’s not the end of it. His friends take an increasing interest in his sex life (or perceived lack thereof) as Michaelmas term goes on. None of them bother Arthur about _his_ , even though to the outside eye he’s just as celibate as Merlin. Maybe that’s why Merlin seems to do most of the deflecting attention from their (more active than ever, now they’ve got the flat) actual sex life, while Arthur…well.

They host a Halloween party at their flat, which sounds great in theory, but in practice comes to mean Merlin lugging a keg of beer upstairs by himself.

“Thanks for the help,” he says when he finally makes it onto the landing and has recovered enough breath to speak, glaring at each of the early arrivals (plus Arthur) in turn. “Anyone want to kick this into the net for me?”

Gwaine shrugs, remorseless. “I’m a princess, I can’t do physical labor.” (He’s dressed as Cinderella. Last year it was Jasmine. The good money for next year is on Ariel.) “What you need is a Prince Charming.”

“He’s got one already,” Arthur declares, picking up the keg with annoying ease. (Merlin knows the ease isn’t really _quite_ as easy as Arthur makes it appear, which only makes it _more_ annoying that his display of fake ease works so…easily.)

“He does?” says Elyan. “Anyone I’ve met?” Merlin gives him a high five.

 

Sometimes it feels like Arthur is barely even trying to keep things under wraps. Morgana comes for a visit late in the term, and gets along with Gwen so well that if Merlin didn't know better he would think theywere the ones in a secret relationship. Unfortunately, that means Gwen quickly brings Morgana into her latest obsession: finding Merlin a boyfriend.

“I have the perfect guy,” Morgana declares, pulling a picture up on her phone. “He’s Arthur’s and my second cousin. Ethan, Viscount Hull. He’s gay and fit and single, so—”

“Check, check, and check!” Gwen says with entirely too much enthusiasm. Merlin tries to slide her mimosa glass away, but she holds tight. (In hindsight, weekly brunch was a bad idea.)

Arthur is frowning. “Merlin doesn’t want him. He’s a bit obnoxious, isn’t he?”

“You literally said three weeks ago he was your favorite cousin,” Morgana says. “I was there.”

“Didn’t he throw up on you the first time we met? Pretty disgusting, that.”

“He was _three_.”

“For the last time,” Merlin cuts in, “I don’t need anyone’s help with my love life, thanks.”

“Merlin, he’s _royalty_ ,” Gwen says, widening her eyes at him like she’s trying to impart the significance of twelve hundred years of monarchial rule directly into his brain. “And he’s hot and rich, not that that part matters so much, but it is nice—”

“And he’s really really nice,” Morgana says. “I should mention. An absolute delight. You’d love him.”

“—and he’s really really nice!” Gwen repeats. “And royalty! It’s every girl’s dream.”

“Hey,” Lance objects mildly. (“Not a girl,” Merlin objects a little less mildly, but everyone ignores _him_.)

“Oh, babe,” Gwen says, putting a hand on Lance’s arm and squeezing. He raises her hand to his lips and kisses it, because they are disgustingly sweet together. “You know I love you. I’m just saying—like many girls, I came to Oxford with a dream, and that dream was that Prince Arthur would fall madly in love with me. Obviously I’m as relieved as Mafeking that didn’t happen—no offense, Arthur—”

“Cheers,” he says, downing the rest of his drink.

“—but I still have hope of living the whole swept-off-my-feet-by-royalty dream vicariously.”

“Ethan could totally sweep you, too,” Morgana says to Merlin. “He’s got _muscles_.”

“Technically, for Gwen to live her vicarious dream properly, Merlin would have to date _me_ ,” Arthur says.

“Look,” Merlin says, before that statement can sit for more than a second, “maybe I’m just not into the Julia Stiles _Prince and Me_ thing, okay? Maybe I don’t _want_ to date some overprivileged toff who got a title just for being born.”

“No, I don’t think that’s the problem,” Arthur says. “I think you very sensibly aren’t attracted to him because you can tell he’s a bit of a knob.”

“He’s a _sweetheart_ ,” protests Morgana.

“I don’t think me not being attracted to  _knobs_ is the problem,” Merlin mutters through gritted teeth.

Gwen makes a thoughtful noise. A little _too_ thoughtful, if the way she’s looking between Merlin and Arthur is any indication, and Arthur finally, _finally_ gets some sense into his thick skull and shuts up.

 

They host another party for New Year’s. It’s a smaller gathering, more intimate; most people are still out of town for the holidays. Merlin had Christmas with his mum, of course, but there isn’t much to do in Ealdor, all his early childhood friendships having long since fizzled out. So with Hunith’s encouragement he returned to Oxford on the twenty-eighth. Arthur got in on the twenty-ninth, having put in just enough time at The Firm to pass muster. But somehow almost all their closest friends are able make it to the party, even a few from pre-uni days who take the train up.

The evening unfolds relaxing and low-key, disregarding the part where Merlin couldn’t find his phone and asked Gwen to call it, only to scramble to explain why it rang from the mess of sheets on Arthur’s (their) bed. But other than _that_ hiccup, everything flows smoothly, conversation and champagne alike.

The countdown has started—well, Gwaine started from sixty, and by thirty most people have joined in—when Arthur says, low in Merlin’s ear, “Can I kiss you at midnight?”

Merlin turns to him, not quite able to fight the smile that wants to creep onto his lips even as he says, “It’ll look a bit suspicious if we both disappear, won’t it? Though I suppose everyone will be distracted. What do you think, bedroom or bathroom?”

Arthur grabs his wrist, stopping him from going to see which is unoccupied. There’s a seriousness—a nervousness—in his expression that knocks Merlin off balance. “Out here, I meant.”

The world tilts a little, presaging another life-altering focal shift. “What?”

“I know it’s early—only halfway though uni—and I can’t say how quickly things will progress, how long it’ll be before the stage where the whole world knows, and I’ll understand if you’d rather not, but I’m sick of all this hiding and bullshit, I want—”

Merlin doesn’t let him finish. He doesn’t let anyone finish. He doesn't let the _year_ finish. He kisses Arthur when the countdown is only at four.

They pull apart sometime after midnight, to whistles and cheers and whoops and applause and fireworks both on the telly and outside they can pretend are just for them. Gwen’s celebrations _are_ just for them, if how tightly she squeezes Merlin around the middle while hissing “I _knew_ it, you knob” into his ear is any indication.

Most of their friends claim to have at least suspected, which Merlin blames entirely on Arthur’s complete lack of actual discretion. There will be plenty of time later for explanations and lengthy confessions. Tonight, Merlin can let Arthur pull him in close. He can shut him up with a kiss when he’s being obnoxious, which is often (joke’s on Arthur; that clever strategy of his from earlier goes both ways). Arthur can pinch Merlin’s bum when he says something cheeky and Merlin can swat him away, pretending to be annoyed even though he isn’t, and neither of them have to worry whether they’re coming off as too friendly for flatmates. It’s kind of brilliant in a way Merlin guessed it would be but couldn’t fully understand until it happened. (Several times he kisses Arthur when he isn’t being obnoxious at all.)

Once everyone’s gone home and Merlin has snuck four shots of espresso to ensure he stays awake for New Year’s sex and Arthur, three fingers deep in Merlin’s arse, has said “Are you _vibrating_?” in a disapproving tone and they’re lying cuddled under the covers to fight the January chill, finally playing out Merlin’s Captain America fantasy, Merlin’s phone buzzes. It’s a picture from Leon, a selfie with Percy and Elyan taken at midnight, and there in the background, blurry but unmistakable, are Merlin and Arthur.

“There’s photographic evidence already,” Merlin says, passing the phone to Arthur and burrowing a bit deeper into his warm embrace.

“Yeah,” Arthur says, with a slow smile that Merlin doesn’t actually see, but hears in his voice and feels pressed into the skin between his shoulder blades. “Two and a half years in. It’s nice, isn’t it?”

Merlin rolls over and pulls him down for a kiss. “Yeah, it’s alright,” he murmurs against Arthur’s lips, smiling, and kisses him again.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading, and please do drop me a comment if you enjoyed; they're so much fun to read. I never get enough of these two, or the Merlin fandom, for that matter. ♥


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